


The Three Times He Fell In Love

by BelleGeorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Heartbreak, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Minor Violence, No Mary Morstan, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Poor Victor Trevor, Protective John, Sherlock Loves John, Then just pure love, and John loves Sherlock, but nothing happens don't worry, relationships, teen Sherlock loving someone a lot older than him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 23:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleGeorgia/pseuds/BelleGeorgia
Summary: Sherlock has only told three people in his life that he loved them, and only one said it back. He recollects, and it's painful and beautiful and important.





	The Three Times He Fell In Love

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet I couldn't stop myself writing.
> 
> There’ll be french translations in the end notes, bare in mind it’s pretty much all taken from google translate as my french is appalling.
> 
> EDIT: A lovely reader, MorganeUK , has kindly pointed out my many mistakes with the French language and has translated it for me, so all hats off to them for helping me write a more comprehensible, and probably less offensive, story haha! Thank you again, angel!
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies.

When Sherlock was six, he fell in love.

Running through overgrown fields, wind and grass in his hair, falling over only to jump immediately back up and continue on. The pain of grazed knees not registering in his mind, not until he had to go home alone.

Sherlock, of course, didn’t know what being in love _was_ back then. But he knew something was up when his tummy would hurt, his hands would get clammy, and his heart would race even when he was just laying under the hot summer sun.

They called themselves Redbeard and Bluebeard, and Sherlock didn’t even complain about the fact it was impossible to grow a blue beard. He wore the name with pride, and when Mummy bought him a captains hat, he demanded she go back to the shop to buy another one.

Sherlock couldn’t bare to be apart from his friend, it was the oddest sensation. Not dissimilar to when Mummy or Daddy would drop him off at school, the longing to stay with them and not have to interact with the other noisey girls and boys. It was a deep ache, a nauseous feeling in his chest, and it made him irrationally angry. He would lash out and shout at the other children in his class, couldn’t understand why they kept asking him stupid questions or why they didn’t understand the tasks they were set.

Once, a young boy whose name Sherlock couldn’t remember, asked the grumpy boy if he wanted to play pirates during playtime. Sherlock had been _livid._ No, he didn’t want to play pirates! Why would he want to play pirates with anyone other than Victor? This boy, this _stranger,_ would be all wrong, he would get the game wrong, he would ruin it!

Sherlock had explained all this to him, and then the boy had started crying. Confused, Sherlock had asked him why he was so upset, and the boy _pushed him._ Being only six, the young child of course didn’t have a full grasp over overwhelming emotion, the rejection painful and baffling. He was hurt, so he wanted Sherlock to hurt too. And Sherlock, also only being six and unfortunately having an even _less_ grasp over his emotions, had picked himself up, stared down at his grazed hands where small dots of blood were oozing out of his skin, and had then proceeded to punch the boy in the face.

It wasn’t hard, the small muscles of his arms not having developed enough to cause much damage, but the intent was clear and the other boy had _screamed_ and then Sherlock was being dragged inside by their teacher.

He got into a lot of trouble, his parents were called in and scolded him severely, kept asking him why he had done it and that it was unacceptable behaviour. Thinking this was rather unfair, Sherlock had tried to explain that the boy had pushed him first, but then he had just got a lecture on why violence was _never_ an option, and if someone hurt him he should walk away and tell a teacher.

Stupid idea, really, considering the teacher was an idiot.   

And when Sherlock had voiced _that_ particular assessment, Mummy had forbidden any more playdates with Victor for two whole weeks!

It was the worst two weeks of Sherlock’s young life, he had cried and smashed up his room, throwing tantrum after tantrum that his parents infuriatingly ignored.

When Mycroft tried to come into his room, Sherlock had thrown a book at his big fat head and screamed at him to ‘ _Go away!’._

When Eurus came into his room, many hours later, when Sherlock had tired himself out and was lying curled up in a fetal position on his bed, she had stood over him with a curious expression. She then reached out to brush her tiny fingers over his cheek, smearing his tears over his face. When she had asked if he wanted to play, Sherlock had rolled over, turning his back to her, and muttered, “No. You’re not Victor.”

When the punishment had ended, a few days before the two week mark was up due to the fact that his parents couldn’t take his sulking anymore, Sherlock had nearly exploded with happiness.

Redbeard and Bluebeard sprinted around the grounds of Musgrave for hours, squealing in delight and bashing their small wooden swords together with gusto. Then, when their little legs grew tired and the sky was beginning to darken, they had laid side by side in the grass pointing out funny looking clouds above them.

“I love you, Redbeard,” Sherlock had said clearly and honestly.

Victor had giggled, said that boys couldn’t love other boys and that he was silly.

Sherlock had shrugged, ignoring that comment because it was a stupid thing to say but he didn’t want to call Victor stupid because he thought maybe that would make him sad.

That night, Redbeard went missing and was never found. And Sherlock, being only six and still not possessing that full grasp over his emotions, reinvented Redbeard in his mind into something he could logically love and lose.

* * *

When Sherlock was sixteen, he fell in love.

Father had a business partner come and stay with them over the summer to work on a project, the details not something Sherlock had paid much attention to.

He was called Enzo and he was tall and blonde and French, with tanned skin and sky blue eyes. He was also fifteen years older than Sherlock, and could speak six languages and would call Sherlock _‘Mon petit agneau’_ and Sherlock would scowl and roll his eyes.

But at night, he would turn off every light in his room, squeeze his eyelids tight, and pant into the air as his hand trailed slowly down his chest, his stomach, his abdomen, pretending it was sunkissed and rough and belonged to someone else.

Afterwards, when his sweat was cooling his flushed skin, he would roughly scrub himself off with an old t-shirt and then punch his pillow over and over again.

Sometimes, Enzo would squeeze Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed his chair where he was sat curled up reading a book. Sometimes it would be a ruffling of his curls. Or sometimes, if Sherlock was lucky, the man would lean over his shoulder to read a paragraph of his book, his hot breath caressing the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

Those were the best and worst moments.

When Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore, the ache in his groin too much and worried the man could hear his rapidly beating heart, he would give Enzo a side-eyed glare, careful not to turn his head towards him too much, and the man would chuckle and retreat. Sherlock’s relief and disappointment following him out of the room.

Sometimes, Sherlock would sit and watch the man swim in the pond from his bedroom window. The water cascading slow droplets down the strong arms and chest. Sherlock would rest his head on his hand, bottom lip between his teeth. Once, Enzo had suddenly looked up, and Sherlock, in a panic, had simply frozen. The man had blinked up at him for a long moment before raising an eyebrow, then turned away.

Mortified, Sherlock had slide to the floor and banged the back of his head repeatedly against the wall.

After that, Sherlock took residence up in his room, not leaving for many days, the space becoming a haven he preferred over possible knowing looks across the dinner table. Concerned, his parents tried to coax him out with offers to day trips to London, or with his favourite food, or, once, with a threat to invite Mycroft over for the weekend.

Nothing worked, and Mycroft turned up the next day. Sherlock locked his door.

In the end, it was Enzo who got Sherlock to end his week-long isolation. He knocked on the door and Sherlock, thinking it was Mycroft yet again, had shouted _“Go away, you lard-arse!”._ When he heard the deep chuckle on the other side of the wood, he had stumbled over to the door, reached for the knob, then simply held it. Rested his forehead against the wood.

“Sherlo’k? May I come in?” The man had muttered, and Sherlock had shaken his head slowly, rolling it on the door from side to side, even though the man obviously couldn’t see him.

“S'il te plaît?”

“Pourquoi?” Sherlock had murmured quietly.

There was a long pause, before a whisper had drifted to Sherlock through the crack of the door, “Tu me manques, agneau.”

Sherlock had shut his eyes tight, inhaling deeply. Then he had unlocked the door and opened it slowly. The man on the other side smiled winningly at him, and Sherlock’s chest had grown tight at the sight.

They had sat on Sherlock’s bed, chatting lowly about Sherlock’s school work in an attempt to ignore the strained situation. Then Enzo had asked Sherlock why he had been hiding from him. Sherlock had denied it at first, stating he was busy composing, and the man had given him a doubtful look.

“Je n’ai entendu aucune musique,” Enzo smiled softly.

Sherlock had flushed, silently berating himself for the idiotic excuse.

Before he had the chance to explain himself, Enzo had reached out with one hand and brushed back the curls at Sherlock’s temple with a small smile, tucking the hair behind his ear.

“Tu es confus, oui?”

To Sherlock’s dismay, tears rapidly filled his eyes and he looked down quickly to hide his face.

 _“Oh, mon petit agneau,”_ Enzo had murmured, sliding his warm hand up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head and tugging it forward to rest his lips against his crown.

 _“Je t'aime,”_ Sherlock had whispered with a sniffle, reaching out with shaking fingers to grip the material of the man’s soft shirt.

“Non, you do not,” Enzo breathed softly into his hair.

“I do, I do, I'm in love with you,” Sherlock had muttered, turning his face to the side so that he was murmuring into the man’s neck.

“Sherlo’k, non,” Enzo tried to delicately move away.

 _“Mais je le suis, je le suis, je le suis-"_ Sherlock had repeated desperately, mouthing up the strong jaw, trying to reach for the man’s lips.

Enzo had gripped Sherlock’s face between his large palms, gently but firmly detaching the boy from his skin and holding him at arm’s length. He had smiled sadly at Sherlock’s anguished expression. Stroked his thumb over a sharp cheekbone.

“Tu es beau,” he had said tenderly. Titled Sherlock’s face to make sure he was making eye contact, then switching to english to make the message clear. “But you are a child.”

Sherlock had tried to explain that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t _care._

“Mais moi oui,” Enzo had said.

Anger had engulfed Sherlock then, and he had shoved at Enzo’s chest roughly.

“Get out. Get out!”

And so the man had, lingering at the door for a moment and looking back at Sherlock sorrowfully. Sherlock had thrown a pillow at him, but all it did was bounce off the door when it was closed with a soft click.

Sherlock had curled up in a fetal position, a strange sense of déjà vu accompanying the ache in his chest.

Mycroft had stepped into his room a few hours later, taken one look at Sherlock on the bed and had sighed.

“Oh, little brother. Caring is not an advantage.”

Sherlock decided he was quite right, and pushed away the horrible pain in his heart, surrounded the delicate muscle with a tall wall, and had left his room for the first time in a week.

The rest of the summer was a dance of politeness and indifference. Sherlock avoiding Enzo when it wasn’t obvious he was doing so, and treating the man with impeccable formality when they crossed each other.

Enzo stopped patting his shoulder, stopped ruffling his hair. Stop calling Sherlock _‘mon petit agneau’_ and Sherlock told himself he didn’t care.

When the day came for Enzo to leave, Sherlock shook his hand impassively before turning away. The man then grabbed Sherlock’s arm, tugging him into a fierce embrace, wrapping strong arms around his back. Sherlock had frozen, forcing his body not to lean into the touch. Enzo cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck, reaching down to murmur into his ear.

“Stop punishing yourself like dis,” he kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Au revoir, _mon petit agneau_.”

Then he was gone.

Sherlock ignored the questioning looks from his parents.

And he ignored the man’s advice.

* * *

When Sherlock was twenty-eight, he fell in love.

John Watson limped into his life, smiled at Sherlock, and called him amazing and incredible and extraordinary.

By this point, Sherlock had forgotten what love felt like, but he knew something was up when his stomach ached, his hands got clammy, and his heart raced even when he was just sitting in his chair at Baker Street.

John wasn’t like anyone Sherlock had ever met before, he was loyal from the start, protective and complementary in such a matter-of fact way that it had to be nothing but genuine. He was endlessly frustrated with Sherlock, calling him out without hesitation when Sherlock did something a bit not good, but he never left. Stormed out of the flat a few times, yes, but he always came back.

The first time this happened, Sherlock had curled up in a fetal position on the sofa, heart aching in a way long-forgotten, and was utterly convinced he would never see the doctor again. Then, hours later, John had swung back into the flat, smelling of alcohol and sweat, had stumbled into the kitchen to turn on the kettle before padding into the living room and stopping short.

“Are you okay?” He had asked in alarm, staring at Sherlock’s wide-eyed look of confusion.

“You’re back,” Sherlock had stated, blurting the obvious without thinking.

“Yeah…” John had frowned. “I live here?”

And then Sherlock had grinned and grinned and the ache in his chest had switched from painful to _amazing._

John patted Sherlock’s shoulder when he passed him a cup of tea, he ruffled his hair when he was sulking on the sofa, he squeezed the back of Sherlock’s neck when he was sat hunched over his microscope.

And when John leaned over his shoulder to read an article on Sherlock’s laptop, Sherlock turned his head fully to stare at the side of his face. John glanced at him, smiled softly, then wandered away.

Sometimes, Sherlock would lean over John’s shoulder while he was tapping away at his blog, just to see how the man would react. Usually he would ignore him, or push him away when Sherlock said something derogatory about his writing. But once, Sherlock felt John’s face turn towards him and his breath danced across Sherlock’s cheek. John sat there, eyes flicking over the turned away features, and maybe he thought Sherlock didn’t notice, or maybe it was pointed, a silent hint. Sherlock kept his face looking ahead, then slightly tilted his head to the side to bare his neck and felt John’s breath hitch slightly. He bit back a smile and turned away.

There was some satisfaction in that.

Sometimes, Sherlock would find himself staring at John from across the room, eyes drawn to him like a beacon of light. The sun would filter through the room and bleach John’s hair, or the moonlight would transform it to a glittering brown. Sherlock would stare and stare at him, and his pulse would race in the strangest way, and when John glanced up he would look away quickly.

The first time John punched someone for Sherlock, the detective thought his heart would explode out of his chest. The only visible evidence of this was a tiny flicker of a smile Sherlock aimed at a wall when he turned his face away so John wouldn’t see. He wished with all his might he had been there to witness the hit, but that was impossible as he was being slammed onto the side of a police car at the time.

The second time John punched someone for Sherlock, however, the stars had aligned and Sherlock was there to see it in all it’s aggressive glory.

They were working undercover for a case, something about a drugged homicide, Sherlock forgets. Sherlock was dressed in tight jeans and a black t-shirt, John in a similar get up ( _lovely_ ), and had parted ways in a club to watch the crowds without looking suspicious as a two-some.

John had wandered over towards the loos, monitoring who was stumbling in and out, and Sherlock had situated himself by the bar to try and weasel information out of the bartenders.

Sherlock had lost sight of John pretty much immediately, the dancing bodies far too dense to make out his small form on the other side of the room. So when a burly man had sauntered over and asked to buy Sherlock a drink, he was confident he would be dealing with the situation solo.

After Sherlock had politely refused, the man had all but grabbed his shoulder, leaning in with a leer and announcing he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Sherlock had wondered if that line had ever actually worked on someone before, and found himself saying so out loud.

“Pretty thing has a mouth on him,” the man had smirked, eye’s gleaming dangerously.

“I’m not a ‘thing’,” Sherlock had scowled and shook off the man’s hand.

“Don’t be like that,” the man had slurred, snatched Sherlock’s wrist when he had turned to move away. “You _are_ very pretty, though.” He tugged Sherlock towards him roughly, making the other man stumble and catch himself on the bar to stop him falling into the broad chest.

“Let go,” Sherlock had snapped, irritated, and tried to wrench his hand away. The man held on with disconcerting strength, tightening his grip painfully.

“What’s your name?” He asked instead, pulling at him again.

Sherlock twisted his arm outwards, effectively loosening the grip on his wrist and took a step backwards with a glare. He darted his eyes up and down the man, taking in his dilated pupils and flushed face. His hands were rough and calloused, obviously a manual labourer. Possessed a dominance kink, which definitely wasn’t ideal.

Sherlock changed tactic, had sent him a charming smile. “I’m with someone, mate. He’s around here somewhere,” Sherlock made a show of glancing over the crowd.

The man didn’t even blink. “Nothing like a bit of healthy competition,” he had drawled, leaning forward to breathe stale breath across Sherlock’s face. “Come dance with me.” He took a quick step into Sherlock’s space, reaching behind him to grab a hand at Sherlock’s arse.

Before Sherlock could react other than to clench a fist, a hand had landed on the man’s shoulder from behind and effortlessly spun the burly figure around.

“Alright?” John had smiled cheerfully up at him, before smashing his fist into the man’s large face, knocking him flat. He was still smiling, that beautiful smile he does when he’s _livid,_ when the man had hit the floor and was blinking dazedly up at his hovering form.

“Don’t you fucking touch him.” John’s voice had been cold, his eyes _fire,_ his smile dimpling his cheeks.

Sherlock had stared and stared and realised then and there that yes, that’s what that feeling in his chest was, the one he’d so desperately been trying to ignore for months; it was love.

John had asked if Sherlock was okay, who had nodded silently, and John had grabbed his arm and dragged him from the club.

John hadn’t said a word the entire taxi ride home, but his hand had gripped onto Sherlock’s knee possessively the whole journey back and Sherlock didn’t think anything could compare to the thrill he had experienced in that moment.

Turns out, something could, because when they had got home, John had slammed the door shut, grabbed Sherlock’s face between his hands and pressed their foreheads together while hissing, “How dare he touch you, how _dare_ he touch you like that. I could have _killed_ him.”

Sherlock had been frozen to the spot, heart thudding in his ears.

“You almost did,” he had whispered.

“No, no, you don’t understand. Killed him, I could have _killed him,_ Sherlock,” John had muttered desperately.

“I love you.”

The admission came from nowhere, Sherlock didn’t even know he had been thinking it at the time but he must have done, because he said it.

And John, _god John_ , _beautifulangrywonderfultranscendentincredible_ John hadn’t even blinked. Had snapped, “I love you too,” right back and crushed his mouth to Sherlock’s with bruising force.

* * *

Years later, Sherlock takes a moment to reflect on these moments, John curled up asleep on his chest in their bed, moonlight cascading across the room from the window and hitting John’s naked body in all the right places and making him look otherworldly.

He thinks about little Victor Trevor, his Redbeard, the memories long having come back to him after a horrendous night in an isolated prison. His first friend, murdered because Sherlock had made the mistake of loving him. Realises now it couldn’t have been helped, there’s nothing he could have done differently as be was only a child himself. He could never have saved him. He wonders what would have happened if he had lived to grow up with Sherlock, if he would have grown to love him too.  

Sherlock thinks about Enzo, with his charming smiles, delicate touches and soft words. The infatuation that caused him such heartbreak, caused him to smother any and all romantic feelings for so many years. He wonders what he’s doing now, if he’s married and happy. If he ever thinks about Sherlock, the young teenager who had fallen in love with him and he had rightly rejected with such care and compassion. Thinks about how the man who had told him to stop punishing himself for _feeling_ so much, a hint of promise that it would pass and he would find someone who would love him back.

He thinks about John Watson, currently whispering Sherlock’s name in his sleep, his mind forever fixated on Sherlock even when he’s not conscious. Who _loves_ him, who didn’t hesitate to tell Sherlock he loved him right back when the man had accidently muttered the dreaded words first. Who, apparently, had fallen in love with Sherlock just as quickly as the detective had with the doctor. Who enjoys telling him that fact daily, even now, just to see Sherlock smile. Tells him even when they row and bicker, and when they shout and scream at each other, when they curl up together on the sofa or when they’re at crime scenes or when they’re panting into each others mouths and gripping fists into bed sheets.

Sherlock Holmes hasn’t had many experiences of love, but in his opinion he’s had enough to be getting on with. And he knows without a doubt, he will experience it endlessly until the day he dies.

Because he falls in love with John Watson everyday.

 

~FIN~

**Author's Note:**

> French translations, including the obvious just in case:  
> (EDITED BY THE LOVELY MorganeUK )
> 
> ‘Mon petit agneau’ - ‘My little lamb’  
> “S'il te plaît?” - “Please?”  
> “Pourquoi?” - “Why?”  
> “Tu me manques, agneau.” - “I miss you, lamb.”  
> “Je n’ai entendu aucune musique.” - “I didn’t hear any music.”  
> “Tu es confus, oui?” - “You are confused, yes?”  
> “Je t'aime,” - “I love you.”  
> “Mais je le suis, je le suis, je le suis” - “But I am, I am, I am.”  
> “Tu es beau.” - “You are beautiful.”  
> “Mais moi oui,” - “But I do.” (Kind of, more literal is 'But me yes')  
> “Au revoir.” - “Goodbye.”


End file.
